


Through the Fog

by crna_macka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, mentions of Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crna_macka/pseuds/crna_macka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa has Monroe off-balance, even when she's sitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Fog

**Author's Note:**

> 3\. "Locked in a building/room/small space together alone" fill for the [28-day challenge](http://the-100-femslash.tumblr.com/post/109795013900/do-you-write-fics-do-you-love-the-100-are-you-a)

They're on the bank of the river when the acid fog comes, driving birds and beasts before it. Near and far, horns echo in warning: _take cover, take cover._

Monroe's brain short-circuits trying to remember the nearest shelter, so she runs - just runs, even though the fog is faster and gaining ground. She's _seen_ what this shit does to people. She'd rather be shot. Again.

"Fuck, fuck," she's muttering with every exhale, but she still doesn't know - she can't remember - 

She's pulled into the undergrowth.

It's reflex to struggle against the pressure holding her against a solid wall, but her head clears enough in a few seconds for her to stop. Adjust. Take better stock of her surroundings. And the pressure, an arm across her chest, eases.

"You're safe, _gona_ ," a woman's voice says.

Grounder. Tunnel. But safe from the fog.

Monroe lets herself be led deeper into the passage and when a spark is struck to a torch to light their way, she finally realizes who her savior is. Her automatic reaction, jerking back as if stung, draws the Commander's gaze.

"I saved you. Trust me," the Commander says. It's gentler than an order, and Monroe blushes. They're allies now. _Because_ of this woman. Of course Monroe should trust her, out of all the Grounders.

"Right, I know," Monroe stutters out. "I know. Thank you."

In the confines of their underground hollow, she is acutely aware that she is a fighter, not a soldier. She knows there is protocol, some kind of deference she should show, but Bellamy never established anything so formal among the Hundred. So she's left clenching her jaw, trying not to say anything stupid to the Grounder princess. 

The Commander leads them a little deeper, to a perceptible "turn" in the cave with a pile of pelts and old clothing and a notch in the wall for the torch. This is how the Grounders prepare, Monroe thinks. There must be little burrows everywhere.

"You're bleeding," the Commander notes, and Monroe checks herself before remembering the still-healing arrow wound. The pain flares to the forefront of her consciousness, and she feels herself stagger out of survival mode.

* * *

When Monroe comes to, it's with a shiver and a wince. Her boots and pants are gone but her thigh is bound with field dressings. The pelt that's been draped over her for modesty doesn't negate the fact that she's been half-stripped by _the Grounder Commander_. The situation definitely calls for mortification.

"You tore an old wound," the woman says. She sits a short distance away, between Monroe and the tunnel's entrance. 

"A wound your people gave me," Monroe mutters, embarrassment eating into irritation. "Thanks for that."

It's a stroke of luck that the Commander only raises an eyebrow at the sarcasm. "It hasn't slowed you."

Coming from a grounder warrior, the statement is a compliment. Monroe is distracted by the thought. This stern woman, who barely smiles and commands an entire army of experienced fighters, has actually... noticed her? Even her own people's leaders - the adults from the Ark and Clarke, Bellamy too, sometimes - hardly recognize her.

Then there's dizziness and an arm around her shoulders, easing her back against the wall, as the Commander admonishes her. "That was not an invitation to try to move so fast, _gona_."

Monroe closes her eyes to stop the tilting view. "My name's Monroe," she says, and she feels the Commander solid against her side, propping her up.

"I am Leksa," the Commander says. Even if she can't see it, Monroe can hear a hint of a smile. 

_Lexa_ , Monroe thinks. Like Alex, like Alexander. Alexander the Great. Bellamy loves his history lessons. Like they are at all relevant. "Did you know," she starts, letting herself shift into the support. The solid, warm muscle. "You were named for an ancient warrior king?"

"I do not think that was the intention," Lexa says gently.

Monroe chances opening her eyes, letting them follow the edge of the Commander's glowing profile, the regal lift of her chin and bared line of her throat. She tries to remember what it means to be brave.

"Yeah, but it suits you."


End file.
